Bold brush strokes slice through the riparian forest.

The quiet valley provides an empty canvas for these ancient characters.

Out of chaos the calligrapher creates order. Ideograms emerge from the emptiness.

Only with a quiet gaze do the subtle strokes begin to reveal themselves.

With a dancing brush, smooth strokes are swiftly applied to the river’s surface.

The stroke and the calligrapher, who can tell them apart? The stroke is the calligrapher and the calligrapher, the stroke.

With a final flick of the brush, the finest stroke bleeds through the delicate canvas.

The morning sun is already high in the sky.

Scrambling down to the river, a new world reveals itself — one of opposing forces. Heavy mist and extreme sun, stubborn stone and relentless water, ink-black shadows and blinding light forever caught in this eternal dance.

The noise at the base of the falls is deafening. The light shifts across the river valley only to be consumed by bottomless shadows.

Wind and mist pummel everything in its wake as it swiftly cuts downstream. Nothing is forgotten, nothing is spared.

Day after day, year after year the dance continues yet there is only one dancer.

An unexpected guest appears at the base of the waterfall.

I thought he might leave soon but he continues to entertain himself by scrambling up and down the boulders, getting soaked by the spray of the waterfall and wading into the river. What is he doing?

I keep an eye on him. He keeps a very close eye on me.

As long as he doesn’t approach, there’s no need for concern.

Much time passes. Finally, he leaves and I have this thunderous oasis to myself — again.

Overcast skies and dog-walking families are my companions on this Easter afternoon.

The 3rd-generation forest does not inspire but the lazy stream flowing through it provides a mysterious participant.

Each bend of the winding stream invites a deeper look. Did this stream once flow with more vigor? How deep are its dark waters? Did it once offer its shores for fishing and its current for travel?

Venturing away from the stream and up the steep valley walls, the forest quickly turns to spruce and pine. Trees fallen everywhere.

After taking a few side-trails hoping to reconnect with the valley’s stream but being met with only loud roads and dead-end trails, I retrace my steps back down the main trail, through the Easter-weekend visitors walking their dogs and return home.

Rain starts.

Moments after entering the familiar forest calmness settles in.

The sun barely finds its way to the forest floor. The partially ice-covered bay is inviting but the wind of Georgian Bay bores down and chills to the bone.

The recent cold spell has sculpted delicate dragons of ice on the surface of the shallow waters.

The wind is relentless. The cold from the deep waters of Georgian Bay wash over the shoreline’s edge.

Transitions between smooth and rough, light and dark and movement and stillness disorient but also provide opportunity.

Fingertips burn from the cold. The bay is unbearable. A few more interesting contrasts between water and ice catch the eye but they will have to make due with a hasty glance.

Back to the forest and out of the wind the body quickly warms up and the mind settles down again.

Diffuse light explodes outside of the woods. More transitions, more opportunities.

As the afternoon slips on and the wind dies down, simpler patterns arise.

Towards the end of the day, the sun dips into a cloud bank across the bay hiding and re-appearing from view.

The sun won’t touch the ground today. The last slivers of light fade in and out, in and out and gone.